'Gallop different ways, too, and met at the old needle-rock.
But they was miles away then.' Before the wild boy had come to the end of his story the wounded man had proved that it was only a dead faint, as the women call it, not the real thing.

And after he had tasted a pannikin full of brandy and water, which father brought him, he sat up and looked like a living man once more.
'Better have a look at my shoulder,' he said.

'That----fellow shot like a prize-winner at Wimbledon.

I've had a squeak for it.' 'Puts me in mind of our old poaching rows,' said father, while he carefully cut the shirt off, that was stiffened with blood and showed where the bullet had passed through the muscle, narrowly missing the bone of the joint.

We washed it, and relieved the wounded man by discovering that the other bullet had only been spent, after striking a tree most like, when it had knocked the wind out of him and nearly unhorsed him, as Warrigal said.
'Fill my pipe, one of you.